


A Pillar Steadfast In The Storm

by mansikka



Series: Shade Falls On Us [1]
Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, POV Alec, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-14
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:15:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12058803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mansikka/pseuds/mansikka
Summary: When the Institute gets a call about a rift opening up on the streets of New York, Alec goes out with his team to investigate. They’re expecting a simple mission, but as Alec gets separated from the rest of the group, he realises that it is anything but.When Alec wakes in the aftermath of the mission, it might as well be to an entirely different life to the one he’s always known. There’s a difficult path ahead of him full of difficult choices. How is he going to find his way back to himself?





	A Pillar Steadfast In The Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :)
> 
> Firstly, thanks are due to Desirae, for reading this first part before any of the others were written and then being so enthusiastic about the rest of it when I was done! Cheerleading at its best; can't thank you enough :)
> 
> And secondly, here's the series summary, in case you've not seen that already and need to know what you're letting yourself in for:
> 
>  
> 
> _In all the time they’ve been together, Magnus and Alec have skirted around the subject of mortality. It’s an unknown that bubbles beneath the surface of their relationship, but one they think they have all the time in the world to address. But when Alec is injured on a mission, his mortality is called starkly to their attention, and there’s no way to continue avoiding that his life will inevitably end—much sooner than either of them had imagined._
> 
>  
> 
> _Alec’s slipping through his fingers, and Magnus is beside himself not knowing how to help. Is the unimaginable going to be their way out of this nightmare?_
> 
>  
> 
> So, here’s a new one for you, and as seems to be the case with anything I write currently, it’s kind of miserable. I have to start listening to happier music when I write these things, but, I blame Shadowhunters and some of their soundtrack...
> 
> The title of the series and chapters are some favourite lines from the poem _In Memoriam A. H. H._ by Lord Alfred Tennyson; do not be alarmed! No one is dying, the titles don’t necessarily reflect the chapter’s contents, although they might do in parts… but you should know in advance that I never write major character death stories, so, you can be reassured that no one is dying here.
> 
> The story is posting as a series because the intention when I started this was to have a series of standalone stories that connected together into one long one; it didn’t quite work out like that but… sort of.
> 
> It really is kind of miserable in a lot of places, but there’s also happy too; please read any notes I post on individual chapters for things that might upset you, I’ll do my best to warn as much as I can without spoiling.
> 
> Um. Happy reading... (tissues, wine, chocolate: these might be good company for parts of this...)
> 
> x

There was a time, Alec thinks, as he aims his arrow at his target, that the only thing he truly lived for was the thrill of the hunt. Not even that, he amends, letting the arrow fly, and watching it strike; it was the security of serving. Of having a purpose, a direction to head in so that his path was always a clear route ahead.

His path has become… convoluted. It’s not the straight, step by step approach he’s always thought his feet were going to take to lead him to his future. There’s not even a future ahead of him that he recognizes anymore, Alec realizes, striding forward with his bow poised, ready to strike again.  

Now, he has a tether. A reason outside of mere existence and servitude, a purpose that doesn’t end purely with the instruction of the Clave.  

Alec pivots on his heel, the rustling beside him announcing something else he’s here to put an end to; one more obstacle before he gets to the only place he’s really interested in spending his evening. In a loft overlooking the New York skyline, with a man who has given him an existence he doesn’t ever think he’ll be able to give up.

Magnus, Alec thinks with a smile, shrugging his shoulder to readjust the quiver where it’s slipped, spinning on his heel as a presence steps up behind him and once again taking aim.

The old Alec would have huffed, scorned, definitely rolled his eyes at the way this Alec’s got Magnus on his mind constantly. He would have called it a distraction, a hazard to his mission, and absolutely the worst thing to take with him whenever he’s on patrol. But Magnus, Alec smiles again, though he’s not there physically with him, has added something he never expected to his fighting skills. He’s given him a clarity, a sense of peace that settles gently over his shoulders, and forever gives him a support he now doesn’t know how to be without.  

Magnus has strengthened him, just by wanting to be with him. Just by getting to know him in ways that other people haven’t taken the time to.

 _Magnus_ , he thinks, sending another arrow flying and wondering how many more of these things are going to come at him. It’s been a good ten minutes since he saw Jace or any of the others, and though he’d known the rift was wide open, he doesn’t think any of them expected so many of these demons to come pouring out.

He can feel Jace, though, fluttering away at the back of his attention, and knowing he’s okay adds even further strength to Alec’s spine, helping him find his target yet again.  

There surely can’t be many more of them, Alec thinks then, beginning to feel exasperated. This was supposed to be an easy mission; all hands on deck, sure, but a task that no one envisioned taking more than an hour at best. Yet here they are, and Alec’s been through practically all his arrows, hacking and slashing with his seraph blade at half the things that have launched themselves at him, with no sign of the demons even beginning to fall back.

If anything, he realizes, for the first time since arriving beginning to feel just a little overwhelmed, they’re actually growing in numbers. No amount of these things meeting the end of his blade or arrow tips seems to be slowing the flow of them to him.  

Alec swallows, grits his teeth, lets the image of Magnus fill his mind to give him a little more certainty, and squares his shoulders to face the onslaught once again.  

* * *

Alec wakes up to the slide of satin beneath his fingers, announcing that somehow he’s managed to find his way to Magnus’ bed. He goes to lift his head, eager to see him, but the weight of his body is just too cumbersome, and there’s little he can do but splay his limbs an almost-inch, relieved to feel at least they seem to be working.

“Alexander,” he hears, and Magnus’ voice is devastated, breathy and almost on the verge of tears. Alec strains to lift his head again, but it just falls right back against the pillow with a soft thud.

“Don’t push yourself,” Magnus urges, finally coming into Alec’s view and soothing him just for the sight of him. He reaches down to push the hair back from his forehead, smiling down at him with evidence of those tears brimming over in his eyes.

“What happened?” Alec asks, surprised at just how croaked his voice is coming out.

“There was an attack,” Magnus says, swallowing hard and balancing precariously on the edge of the bed; too far away, Alec thinks, forcing his hand out to slide across the bed to try to tangle through Magnus’.  

“Yeah,” Alec says, trying to look down at himself, “yeah, I remember that. But what—”

“It doesn’t matter now,” Magnus tells him, holding his hand so gently, Alec’s beginning to think there’s a lot more to the exhaustion that he’s feeling. He flexes his toes and shifts his legs again, relieved to find he’s not broken his back or something.

“How’s everyone else? What happened? Is—”

“Everyone else is fine,” Magnus assures him, but there’s a clip to his words, a hint that things are not quite as well as he is trying to convince him of. Magnus hasn’t even kissed him yet, Alec thinks to himself with a huff, then scolds himself for even prioritizing that.

“Then—”

“No one else sustained injuries aside from you,” Magnus interrupts, with a sharp shake of his head.

“Injuries?” Alec repeats, again straining to lift his head up to look.

“They are not visible,”

“But then—”

“Alexander,” Magnus says then, and his look for him is bittersweet, a soft, sad twist of a smile that’s making Alec’s heart give a jolt, “you will be fine. You will just have to give it time,”

“Give it time,” Alec repeats, growing more alarmed by the second, “give it time for what?”

* * *

He’s floating. Suspended in a liquid that isn’t wetting his skin, yet keeps him moving, undulating in what might be mid air, or thousands of leagues beneath the sea.  

He is a soldier, a warrior built for fighting. A brother, a son, to a select few, perhaps, even a friend. This is his circle. This is his entire world. He has to remember that, he has to cling on to the tendrils of that reality before he loses himself.

Here, there is darkness. An inky blackness that seeps into his every pore, clings to him like a second skin and threatens to flood his lungs, consume him from the inside out, and Alec realizes when it presses in on his throat that he’s supposed to swim away from it. To kick for the surface and fight for his way back.

The question is, his way back to what?

Alec thinks of the Institute. The statues of Idris, the backdrop of mountains against a bright blue cloud-dotted sky. A vague insinuation of a city skyline with so many lights that the horizon seems to twinkle as a mirror to the stars above it. A balcony where he feels like he might have sought solace more than once, yet can’t quite picture where it fits into his life.

The liquid is squeezing him. Attempting to keep him from escaping, to draw him away from everything he’s ever known, to keep him from the existence to which he’s supposed to go back. It is peaceful here, Alec thinks to himself, raising his fingers to watch the inky blackness pour through them, and stops resisting the draw that is giving in. The shimmering light in the distance becomes hazy once again, and Alec allows himself to relax, to be cushioned on this silky nothingness and be at peace for once. Surely there is, for once in his life, time enough for that.

A name is tripping along the edge of his tongue but his lips won’t form it, can’t call into being something that’s buried so very deep in his mind. It feels familiar to him, yet also worlds away from all he knows, and Alec undulates in the not-water-liquid, swimming away from the presence insistently calling for him to return, when he doesn’t see how that particular path can lead him back.

Back. Back to himself. Back to acting for the Clave, to a life filled with duty and servitude, and giving of himself entirely. There is no room in that existence for anything just for him; not that anything Alec really wants for himself are things he will ever get to have.

And so he kicks. Against the shackles of daydreaming, the urges he only ever whispers in secret to himself, the source of such unhappiness that really, it’s no wonder that these are the things that always get left unsaid.

To the Clave, he thinks, to the life that fits him best, the one where his mask is expected in his role as a soldier, a protector of those that don’t even know he exists.

* * *

“ _Alexander…_ ”

Alec frowns at the urgency with which the soothing voice caresses his name, trying to recall the last time anyone called him anything other than just Alec, and coming up blank.  

He hears it again, and when he listens this time it isn’t just soothing, it’s in mourning. Breaking and remolding as though its very utterance is causing its speaker the most painful of hurts. He doesn’t really recognize the voice, though there’s a resonance to it that sits comfortably in his chest like it’s a second home. Which is an odd way to think about anything, Alec huffs to himself, becoming aware that his movements have got the attention of whoever’s trying to call him back.  

“Alec…” he hears, feels a surface dip beside him, startles as fingers begin to stroke the hair back from his forehead and recoiling from it instinctively, hearing the tail end of a wounded sob before the hand is withdrawn.

He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He’s not sure he’s going to like what he sees, and he’s more sure than anything that wherever he is, this is not a place that he belongs.

The Clave, he thinks, his heart giving a surge of panic, that’s where he needs to get back to. That’s the tether to which he must always connect. He tries to move, but something is weighing him down, pressing his limbs into a supporting softness and keeping him there; Alec wonders if it’s the owner of the voice that’s imprisoning him, and starts to plan ways to fight against his restraints.

Jace. Izzy. Max.  

The reminder of his siblings has Alec’s heart beat harder still, as though its fluttering is the thing that’s going to bring him back. He thinks of his parents and that fluttering increases, panicking for the duties he’s not performing in their name; of the way he must be letting them down allowing himself to become trapped like this, whatever is happening to him, wherever it is that he has come.

He has to get back. He has to; to that existence which is all that he has ever known, in the only place where he has ever functioned, the path he’s always walked along that is as straight and precise as any one of his arrows.

Arrows, he thinks, jolting a little harder and imagining he can feel the weight of his bow and quiver at his shoulder and strapped across his chest. They've been as much a part of him as any of his limbs at times; so why does he have the strangest recollection that the bow and quiver are not his to have?

Alec shakes his head at the thought, or at least, he does internally, which is the weirdest thing to be doing, Alec tells himself, fighting against invisible walls for a weak spot to break his way through,

“Come back to me,” he hears then, shying away from the loving sweetness of the voice, knowing the words are things mistaken if they are being spoken to him.  

* * *

This feeling is… confusing.

Alec feels as though he’s suspended over hot coals, and if he tips either side of them he’s going to fall the wrong way—whatever that might mean. To one side there is a certainty, a sureness he gets from knowing where he’s going, to the life he has always known he will have. As Shadowhunter, soldier defending the Mundanes against the horrors of demons they don’t even know exist. The only existence he knows of, that he’s sure of, Alec thinks to himself, feeling his body teetering on the edge.

But to the other side is a vast expanse of unknown. Alec feels an inexplicable pull there, has the impression that if he chooses to fall this way, then it will be to a soft landing, a warmth and sense of coming home that is ridiculous, he thinks. He has no home but the Institute. There is no other world he understands.  

The pull is alluring, however. It’s full of softness and safety, affection and emotions that Alec’s spent his entire life suppressing. There’s nothing he wants for there; he’s welcomed just as he is, without judgement, without questioning. It feels so much a part of him that Alec yearns for it, a tether centered to his very core that’s gently pulling him forward. It’s getting harder to resist it, rocking back and forth between these two worlds he’s been pulled from that he thinks don’t quite slot together—which would explain this choice he needs to be making.

He doesn’t think he can make a choice, Alec thinks to himself, trying to focus on what’s around him and finding nothingness. He’s floating on a cloud, drifting in a blizzard, the only certainty he’s feeling is that it’s been a while since he’s made ground. But even that knowledge could be off, he thinks then, splaying his fingers and limbs as though this opulent emptiness around him can support him indefinitely. He has no sense of time, no idea what he’s doing here, only has the vaguest sense that there’s a place he needs to get back to.

The question is, which way does he fall? Do these worlds not join together beneath him somehow to cushion him, or is there yet a third way of living that is yet to be revealed before him?

Alec looks down, though sees nothing, reaches out, and touches the abyss. Strains to listen, but only hears silence. And what he feels is an existence that’s alien to him, that he’s frightened to reach out for, so holds back, hesitating. Willing the answers to come to him, some guiding force to steer his hand.

* * *

Voices. Why are there so many voices? And why can’t he open his eyes to see where they’re coming from, Alec thinks, struggling and failing to get any movement against his invisible restraints. What’s happening to him?

Straining to find a source for how he’s ended up here in this precarious existence of in between, Alec finds he can’t think far enough back. Was the Institute hit by an attack that’s put him in a coma? Was there a battle he doesn’t remember the name of where he’s still stranded on a field somewhere, and only his mind is left to meander a strange path back?

Alec is clueless. It’s not a sensation he’s used to, or likes feeling, and he tries to reach out with all his senses at once to find himself, yet keeps receiving that same sense of blankness back.  

Where are the voices? Are they in his mind’s eye? Is he in an infirmary somewhere with people looking down on him in concern? Is Izzy reaching out to grasp his hand, Max growing bored at the same four walls, Jace constantly checking his parabatai rune for signs of any change? Are his parents there, ever watchful, willing him to do the eternal right thing and fight his way through this fog he’s found himself in? Are any of them better placed to help him find his way back?

There is another voice. That soothing, lilting, worried-sounding voice that keeps calling out to him, that won’t let him lose a grip on himself, that urges him to fight, and strive, and keep pushing to return to him. To _him_ , Alec thinks, with a jolt to his stomach. Who is this man that’s so insistent that he gets him back? What does he want from him? What does he think Alec can give him, when Alec denied to himself a long time ago that he’d ever let him feel anything for anyone? He can’t think he can give him anything he’d even want, Alec thinks to himself, incredulous and frustrated that for the sense he’s getting that he’s twisting and turning to fight his way through, he knows he’s not moving a single muscle.  

Alec wishes he could see what’s going on around him. Even just a glimpse of his surroundings might help him right himself. Might help him understand the choices he knows he needs to be making, without even knowing what the options are. But there’s nothing; every sense has been dulled and muted in some way, catching fragments of hearing, blurring of images, even snatches of tastes at times. But all for nothing, because none of them stack up to anything. None of them give Alec enough of himself to understand what’s happening.

The sense that hasn’t abandoned him altogether, is his sense of smell. He catches hints of what he thinks is sandalwood, essences of something ancient and earthly, a comforting mix of soot and vanilla and nature, yet if he’s got to put his name on the fragrance, the only one he can come up with is _home_. Which just adds to his confusion, Alec thinks again, pounding against the walls closing in on him in frustration, yelling out in silent screams for anyone to listen, to help him understand.

No one can reach him though, apparently. Though he has the impression they’re trying; there’s a vague shift in the liquid around him, a whisper that speaks of breath against his cheek, and an instinct to clench his fingers like someone is holding his hand.

Who is holding his hand?

* * *

Today, whenever that might be, everything is less muffled. There's a sense for Alec that he’s coming back to himself, that this liquid he’s suspended in and swimming through is less viscous than on previous bids for freedom. There is a shapeless brightness when he tries to look, and his hearing’s now distinguishing between the cadence of voices again. He can tell, for example, that Izzy and Jace are with him, and a third voice; high and female, and that for unknown reasons grates a little on his patience yet he also recognizes as belonging to someone he’s supposed to call a friend.  

He can even tell when they’re leaving. Alec thinks he can feel Izzy pressing a kiss to his forehead, and is adamant he feels the grip of Jace’s palm tight around his shoulder. The third voice calls a wistful goodbye, saying how much it wishes it could do something to help without saying a single word, and then he’s alone again. Trapped in his thoughts, suspended in nothingness.

Then _his_ voice returns.

How can a voice feel like an entire existence? How can the words being spoken be tinged with such love, longing, and sorrow, that Alec feels drawn towards it like it’s calling him home? How is this man doing all of these things, when Alec doesn’t know him at all? How does the voice know him, say things that are only the most intimate of whispers in his own mind, that he has never revealed to anyone? How can he know that, know any of these things at all?

Alec wants to curl in on himself. He’s so exposed like this, and so raw, bared to this stranger who is whispering into his very soul like only he has ever known him. It’s overwhelming, and he doesn’t know what to do with it—not that there’s anything he can do, Alec thinks to himself, forever frustrated. He’s trapped here, wherever here is, suspended in the emptiness of in between, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Shouldn’t he be striving harder to find his own way back?

He _is_ fighting, Alec argues with himself, he’s fighting with every atom of his being, pushing against every wall that’s pressing back on him and straining so hard, that were he in a physical battle, he knows he’d be close to breaking.  

Battle, he thinks then, the vaguest of memories unfurling in the very corners of his mind; was he in a battle? A fight of sorts that’s left him suspended like this, whatever _this_ is, wherever it might be?  

Why does this man keep calling to me like he knows me, Alec thinks then, sure he can feel him sinking down beside him, and his heart giving a pained thud for realizing the quiet muffled noise he can hear is the stranger crying.  

“Come back to me, Alexander,” he’s saying, and Alec wants to flinch at the feel of fingers being slotted between his own. Only he doesn’t, he amends, thinking that those fingers feel as though they might belong there. That they might have intertwined together a thousand times, because they fit, easy as anything, simple as coming home.

Is this man his home? Alec asks himself, prodding and tensing at his senses to get a feel for this, a sense of _him_. How can a person be home?

“Please, come back,”

But how is he to know where to return to, if he doesn’t know where he belongs? How can he respond to the voice that seems to be forever calling him back?

“Please,” he hears, torn, tortured, and broken, feels his hand being raised and kissed against, senses hesitant fingers at his forehead sweeping in a gesture that’s familiar to them, yet foreign to him; this man seems to know that’s how he’s thinking, and Alec can feel that though he’s wanting to surge forward, he’s desperately fighting to keep himself back.

“I love you, so very much,” comes next, and if that doesn’t prick tears in Alec’s eyes. No one’s ever spoken to him with such kindness and affection before. No one’s said those words in the sense he thinks they’re meant for him now. He pleads with the voice to stop, because it’s unbearable to hear it yet not know to whom it belongs.

“Please… please don’t leave me here alone,”

Alec wants to cry. He’s sorry he’s hurting the owner of this voice, even if he doesn’t recognize him. He doesn’t feel worthy of the affection laced through it, and he’s sure he’s no way of giving anything like the amount of love in it back. If anything, he’s concerned that returning to the waking world will disappoint the voice. Leave both of them lonelier than they ever were before whatever’s happened to him. What if he wakes only to discover he wasn’t supposed to come back?

Alec strains harder than he thinks he’s ever pushed himself, bending and flexing his essence trying to shape it into something he can work with. It must be doing something, he thinks, because that hand laced through his twitches in anticipation, like it knows he’s trying to return to himself.  

A memory begins to form for Alec. Blue hues spitting out of warm palms, forming over and over, darting about like indoor fireworks and conjuring home and belonging like Alec has never known in his life. Or perhaps that’s the caress of those palms, not the blue lights forming, Alec amends to himself, remembering embraces, sensuality, and love, he adds, surprised at the slow stirring of his heart into a beating he’s sure he hasn’t felt in months.  

Maybe those things really are a part of his existence. Maybe he has more to go back to than a sense of duty and living solely to serve. Maybe there is more to him than a soldier, a warrior, a dutiful brother and son.  

Maybe he has love in his life, and maybe it’s attached to the hand Alec is now convinced has never let him go throughout any of this. Whatever this is, he huffs to himself again, the root of his absence still something he’s very vague about.

But he’s coming back. He’s coming back to _him_ , Alec thinks, wonder in his inner voice at the idea of having someone to come back to. Wonder that for however long he’s been gone, the owner of that voice has been determined, and never once strayed far from his hand.

 _Magnus_ , Alec thinks then, with so much certainty clicking into place for him, _Magnus_ is here. Magnus is with him. Magnus is the tether that’s preventing him from slipping any further from himself. Magnus is the home that he understands.

Alec prepares himself, beginning to reawaken his limbs, stretching out and surging life through his senses, until he knows he’s laid out on a satin-sheeted bed in a loft apartment with a New York skyline where he’s enjoyed many an evening looking over the city, with Magnus by his side.

Magnus, Alec thinks, his heart surging, a deep gulping breath exhaling from him of its own accord, leaving a lingering taste of soot and ash filling his mouth.  

Magnus.

With effort and strength Alec did not know he was capable of, he reaches out with his mind again, fires synapses and flexes sinews to recall him into the living, breathing existence into his world, and finally, after what might be minutes or maybe even months, manages to snap open his eyes.

His focus is blurred for a few seconds, the outline of a person perched beside him on the bed against a backdrop of a room that is so familiar to him that Alec has not even residual doubt of where he is now.

His eyes settle, his vision sharpens, and the most beautiful face Alec has ever seen in his life appears before him; teary-eyed, disbelieving, mouth suspended open in an echo of hope. Alec’s sure his name has died on the man’s lips, and he wants to kiss it back there, to taste the tears and rain reassurance over his skin until he’s whole again. It’s torture, Alec thinks, straining to move himself even a fraction more to claim all those things, and failing, because he’s still too weak.

“Magnus,” he says, and tears bloom in Magnus’ eyes, his lip quivering with the strain of keeping himself together, and then he’s not at all. But falling forward, crying softly into the crook of his neck like he might just belong there. And Alec finally remembers how to lift his limbs, raising shaky arms up just enough to loop around his waist so he can hug him back.

* * *

 

 


End file.
